


Swimming in the Flood

by Incog_Ninja



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Norman Reedus - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, norman reedus rpf
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Hotel Sex, Norman Reedus - Freeform, Norman Reedus/Original Character(s) - Freeform, norman reedus - fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Incog_Ninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I always feel sexy when I’m getting ready to go somewhere special—really spending time on my hair and makeup and picking just the right outfit. Colors and fabrics and fragrances can be such sensual things, heightening the experience, making it all almost decadent. And having him watch me like this… well, it’s wholly erotic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swimming in the Flood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nmbr1Fanilow](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nmbr1Fanilow).



> Nmbr1Fanilow prompted last week for someone to write a fic based on the below image. I started asking her questions and this is what came from that. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

He’s slouched in the hotel chair, his feet propped up on to the desk, next to his laptop which he's pushed to the side. He promised we’d have tonight together, and he always delivers on his promises.

 

The setting sun is streaming through the sheers, casting light and shadow across his skin. I’m not looking directly at him, though, because I’m caught up in the moment of normalcy that we’re sharing, where he’s so relaxed, and I’m getting ready for our night out; we’re just us.

 

I can feel him watching me as I move around the room, barefoot in a hotel bathrobe. I’ve finished my makeup and started my hair, but I want to get dressed before I put on the rest of the finishing touches. I feel light and sexy—happy—in these moments.

 

I open the closet door and find the dress I brought for tonight, carefully pulling it from its garment bag, admiring it myself, and anticipating what he’ll think when he sees it. I turn and move into to the middle of the large room and hold the dress out to my side for his approval. I finally make eye contact.

 

His head is tilted back and his eyes are half-closed, but he’s alert and watching me closely.

 

“Well?” I ask with raised brows. “What do you think?”

 

He bobs his head and slowly spins his lighter between his thumb and forefinger, periodically tapping it on the arm of the chair. He looks a little like he wants a cigarette and a little like he wants a fuck. If I know him at all, he’ll have both before dinner.

 

“It’s nice,” he mutters, shifting his position in his chair, making a show of getting a better look at me.

 

If most guys I know told me something was _nice_ , I’d think they were just being polite. I might even take offense. But nothing’s ever as simple as the words he uses; it’s all in his eyes and hands and the way he moves. At this moment, the word _nice_ is practically pornographic.

 

He’s still watching me, and it’s intense, to the point of pleasant discomfort. My neck and chest start to burn and I’m sure the blush is creeping its way to my cheeks and up into my hairline. I almost drop my eyes from his, but our time alone is so rare that I don’t want to look away. I just stand there as my knees begin to weaken, holding my dress out for inspection.

 

“Havin’ fun?” he asks in that quiet, almost rough but still gentle voice, and I feel like the most precious thing there ever was. He _knows_ I’m having fun. He’s told me that he loves to watch me in my element, that it’s one of his favorite things to do; and I love having him watch me.

 

His head is tilted and a small smile curves his lips. I match his smile as I lay the dress aside, smoothing it over the edge of the mattress. His smile is a knowing one, as I square my shoulders and face him. Before I can take a step, he’s sliding his feet to the floor, sitting upright, and angling his head again. He adjusts his wool jacket then lightly grips the arms of the chair. He slants his eyes and his smile is more deliberate by the second—so many expressions in such a short amount of time.

 

“Get over here, girl.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but clear as always, and I don’t miss a beat.

 

Within seconds I’m pushing the thick terrycloth of the robe away from my lotion-smoothed thighs and climbing astride him. My hands immediately go to his tie, and his slide over my skin from my bent knees up toward my hips. We work in tandem to move fabric out of our way, to get closer to each other, in a smooth and steady rhythm—one that we both know and love.

 

Once I get his tie undone, absently recognizing that I’m undressing him, getting us further from our dinner reservations, but not caring about that fact in the least, I pop his top three shirt buttons and dip my head to kiss the exposed skin of his neck and collarbone.

 

His hands are buried inside my robe, one steadying my hip and the other slipping between my thighs. “Always so warm and wet for me,” he says, sliding just the tip of his middle finger through my slit, his voice right next to my ear. “Such a good girl.”

 

Then he twists his wrist and slowly pushes that same finger up inside me, his thumb slipping against my already swollen clit. I brace my hands on the back of the chair, close my eyes, and hang my head next to his, reveling in the way he’s touching me for a few minutes. He plays in my wetness and tightens his grip on my hip.

 

“Open my pants,” he says, brushing his lips along my jaw.

 

I push back slightly and take in the sight of him just before my hands go to work on his belt and fly. He’s resting his head back against the chair, looking lazy and relaxed, but his hands tell a different story. His fingers twist, slow and intentional, working toward _that spot_ right at the front.

 

I push my hands inside his briefs, and take him out. He’s so hot and hard and smooth. I could spend hours touching him like this while he touches me. He’s the most physical person I’ve ever known, and he knows exactly what to do with every inch of his body and mine.

 

I stroke him a few times, and he lets go of a small sigh. His fingertip rubs hard and soft inside, more persistent, and I feel the buildup. Blood rushes from all points in my body to where the tip of his middle finger is drawing tight circles inside me. I feel faint and throbbing, like I’m going to lose control.

 

“C’mon, babe,” he says, sliding his free hand around to the small of my back and shifting in his chair. He dips his head and presses his lips to my throat. “Let go; I got ya.”

 

I arch over his hand, keeping one of my own in his lap, continuing to massage and stroke him. My other hand anchors my weight at the crook between his shoulder and his neck. I can’t sit still, but I’m so afraid of messing up what he’s doing.

 

Then he places more pressure in that soft, tight spot, by fully gripping my pussy in his warm, capable hand. His fingertip is lightly digging in and the heel of his hand presses down over my clit. Every thought and feeling and sound tightens into one small, delicate point, and I’m balanced there—right on the edge.

 

I hear my voice, gasping and whining, but it sounds unfamiliar and far away. I move my hand from his cock to his wrist, gripping it like it’s the answer to everything. I’m on the verge of coming harder than I have in weeks.

 

Our entire relationship is forever hanging in the balance, held together with phone sex and 24-hour visits. I touch myself and think of him touching me, but it’s never the same—never quite getting the job done the way he can, the way he is right now.

 

“That’s right, sweetheart, fuck my hand.” His voice is so close to my ear, and he’s holding me so firmly and reverently. I can’t take it anymore. Him pressing inside me, and the heel of his hand over my clit, and his _velvetgravel_ voice… Before I know it, that pinpoint of pressure tightens impossibly until it implodes, and I’m coming apart, wet and loud.

 

Then his hands are pulling at the tie of the bathrobe, pushing it open and to the sides, trailing wet fingertips over my tight nipples, and steadily moving between my legs then around my hips. He centers me and slips inside. I’m still vibrating. I can feel him stretching through the tremors, and it’s so good.

 

“So hot and wet, right from the start,” he says, pulling my earlobe between his teeth. “You were ready for me an hour ago, weren’t ya?” I can hear his smile in his voice. “Should’ve fuckin’ bent you over the car in the garage at the fuckin’ airport—hot little bitch.”

 

I shiver at his whispered words. These moments are unlike any other times between us. He’s a kind and considerate man, soft-spoken some would say; but in these intimate, heated moments he can say anything to me and I’ll love it—we’ll both love it.

 

“You feel so good right after you come.” He grits his teeth and slams me down over him, and all I can do is take it. He pulls my hips and thrusts up into me, and I loosely wrap my hands around his shoulders, twisting my fingers in the soft wool of his jacket, hanging on for the ride.

 

I’m still quaking from what he was doing to me before—always right on the edge of sensation with him, never really dying down. He’s trying different angles, now, deeper and longer, taking my breath away. I feel another orgasm coming, and I can see it in his face.

 

“I wanna feel you come,” he mumbles against my lips before taking them between his own. Then his tongue pushes inside my mouth and slides against mine. He’s kissing me and moving my body to his liking, when the crackle and hum of my second coming burns me from the inside out.

 

“ _Fuck yes_ ,” he says, his head thrown back and his cock pulsing inside me.

 

I collapse over one of his shoulders and rest my head on the back of the chair, as his fingers loosen their hold on my hips. We’re both breathing heavily, and the sounds of his breath and heartbeat make me feel safer than anything else ever does. I turn my head and press my lips to his sweat-dampened neck.

 

“Well,” I sigh. “Looks like we’re both going to need another shower.” I laugh a little then look down into his lap. “And you definitely need a change of clothes.”

 

He catches my lips with his for a few soft kisses. “Fuck it,” he says, wrapping his arms around me tightly and pushing out of the chair. “Let’s order room service.”

 

He crosses the room and tosses me to the bed, my robe falling open and my heart fluttering, as he kicks his shoes off and shrugs out of his jacket.

 

Hours later, when our room is dark, and his breath is slow and deep, I recount every moment we’ve ever spent together as I drift into bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you MsKathy for the red-pen and the observation that he looks like "he's thinking he wants a cigarette, but he wants a fuck more."


End file.
